


Welcome Here Thy Wanderer Home

by poetica (TheFire_in_the_NightSky)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ...very resolved, Demisexuality, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, I have a thing for Cullen and Dorian sniping each other apparently, I unintentionally wrote some disciplinary kink?, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Introspection, Introversion, Lots of face-touching, M/M, Minor Blackwall/Josephine Montilyet, Minor Female Lavellan/Morrigan, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Reference to Cullen's Past, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, The horseshit that comes with Dorian's romance, Trust Issues, Unresolved Romantic Tension, a little Cullen-centric, and there is a happy ending!, angst but in its literal form, just a little, uncomfortable discussions about sexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-03-20 04:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18985177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFire_in_the_NightSky/pseuds/poetica
Summary: Life and death scenarios have become quite the customary thing for both Cullen and Dorian, yes - but following the final battle with Corypheus, their victory puts more than a few things into perspective for them.  Now, of course, it’s just a matter of whether the two of them can work through their own personal hang-ups and anxieties to actually make something of this new (it reallyisn’tnew, the idiots have just been living in splendid denial for months, you see) enlightenment, so to speak.  What with Cullen’s stubborn martyr-complex and Dorian’s predilection for self-sabotage in the areas of his personal life, it’s sure to be an interesting ride, wouldn’t you say?Sweet, blessed Andraste, help these two dolts...





	1. Throatful of Heart

**Author's Note:**

> _I am a fool of passion, and a frown  
>  Of thine to me is an adder’s eye  
> To the poor bird whose pinion fluttering down  
> Wafts unto death the breast it bore so high;  
> Such is this maddening fascination grown,  
> So strong thy magic or so weak am I._
> 
> -Lord Byron, excerpt from _“Last Words on Greece”_

The sky above is a wasting seafoam green amongst the clouds; the scar of the breach still latching onto the early evening with its remnant tendrils.  There is a silent hope - a tense, metaphorical holding of breath that this will be the last time any of them must pray and beg of the heavens to remain healed.

With his own breath heavy and constricted within his lungs, Cullen watches the slow, toilworn procession through Skyhold’s portcullis.  He sees the many faces of his soldiers that marched with the Inquisitor to the Valley of Sacred Ashes, but not all. In the near-sleepless night, Cullen and his fellow advisors had received the short despatch about the success against Corypheus and his dragon once the Inquisitor’s party had reached camp not far from the keep.  Even so, that did not mean it wasn’t still a monumental relief to see Inquisitor Lavellan and her Inner Circle’s return as indisputable proof of victory. However, the message did not make mention of casualties on their side - erring on the side of positive as it had - or if there were any such losses. By the smaller number Cullen is already noting in the ranks of his own men, it is clear not everyone had made it; a reality to be expected, as bleak as that may be.

Beside him, Josephine lets out a shaky breath.  Cullen turns and sees the tension he hadn’t noticed before leave her shoulders.  Across the bailey, Rainier dismounts his weary horse near the stables. Of course, Josephine doesn’t go to him, no, but Cullen cannot help the small, knowing smile he gives her.  The sympathetic happiness he feels rolls an uncomfortable ball of hope and jealousy together within the pit of his stomach. Hope that there are those who have made it through, jealousy that he cannot bring himself to express the unfathomable care  _ he _ has for someone in particular.

Josephine nods to him. “Shall we, Commander?”

At his hip, Cullen’s hand tightens upon the pommel of his sword, kidskin-gloves creaking slightly. “Of course,” he answers.  Leliana is not with them at the steps to the great hall, but he knows undoubtedly, that she is watching from some shadowy perch.  Cullen leads the way down to the courtyard proper, each step making his skin feel tighter and his nerves more frayed with a worry he knows is likely unwarranted.  His pessimistic subconscious reminds him that though someone may have made it out alive, it does not mean they are wholly in one piece.

Halfway to the gate, Josephine stops Cullen with a hand on his shoulder.  One gold-ruffled arm extends to point a manicured finger at a wide wagon rolling into the castle grounds.

“Our Lady Inquisitor seems to be alright, thank the Maker,” Josie breathes.

Vienne Lavellan’s chainmail and pale hair are like a beacon in the still-rising sun.  Cullen notices a concerned frown on her strong, lightly freckled features as she hunches over a blanketed figure on the floor of the wagon.  Again, worry fills Cullen’s chest, but at the moment he is selfishly pushing it away in favour of the elation he feels at the sight of the exhausted mage sat beside the Inquisitor.

//

The ride back to Skyhold was a rickety one at best, but Dorian now feels each sway into the grassy bailey setting his utter exhaustion deeper within his bones.  He supposes it’s better than having ridden the way on horseback. That, and he truly is glad to have been a metaphorical and literal shoulder for his dearest friend to lean on.  He lets go of Vie’s hand so she can better clutch Morrigan’s between her palms. Vie scoots towards the edge of their little makeshift bench of crates and leans over Morrigan with a deep furrow between her brows.  She rubs her thumbs over Morrigan’s hand, then rests her mouth against her beloved’s palm.

“She’s going to recover,  _ amica.   _ Don’t you worry your pretty head,” he whispers to Vie, then leans in closer and tsks at his friend. “Really, what would she say if she knew you were blubbering over her?”

Vienne lets out a watery laugh, raising her head with a small sniffle. “A stone-cold lecture about necessary sacrifice, likely.  Oh, you’re an ass, Dorian.” She smiles before giving a weighty sigh. “Her mother or...  _ whomever,  _ better be watching out for her, or so help me…”

Dorian pats her leg. “Yes, yes.  Let’s recover a day or two with  _ proper  _ sleep before you decide to take on a  _ god,  _ hm?” Maker knows the hour or two he got to doze at the interim camp felt more like minutes.

Looking passed Dorian a moment, Vienne smiles mischievously.  She lightly elbows him in the ribs. “I believe someone was eagerly awaiting your return.”

Dorian turns to see Cullen making his way towards the wagon.  Their eyes lock and Dorian tamps down the flutter in his chest by plastering on his best devilish smirk.  In turn, Cullen beams at him, looking boyish and handsome.

_ “Very eager.” _

Dorian nearly jumps out of his skin at Vie’s words so close to his ear.  He glares back at her as she backs off.  _ “Now  _ who is being the ass?” he snaps. “Perhaps I should begin writing it across my forehead, because Maker knows I am tired of repeating that the commander and I  _ are just friends…  _ more’s the pity…”

With a non-committal sound, Vienne nods curtly. “And I don’t believe for a second  _ either  _ of you are truly content with that.”

_ “Mouth. Shut,”  _ Dorian bites back through a tight smile and begins to stand as Cullen moves closer to the back of the wagon.

Making a scene is the last thing he needs to do - it is the Inquisitor’s moment after all, and her people need to see that a Dalish elf truly could lead them to victory in the end.  But make a scene, Dorian does (well, perhaps just a  _ small _ one), as his wobbly legs give out the moment he jumps from the back of the wagon.   _ Kaffas,  _ he should have grabbed his stave to steady himself - only, he doesn’t fall.  No, in a few quick strides, Cullen is there, his strong arms ‘round Dorian’s waist to catch him.  And just like that, they’re both whisked away to a memory of their very first “meeting” over a year ago.  The memory of when Dorian had risked his life to make it to Haven before the newly indoctrinated Southern mages did.  His warning call and grand entrance that day had been short-lived however, considering beating down several Venatori cultists outside the gates of that tiny village - single-handedly, mind - had drained his mana, as it nearly is now.  And just like then, Dorian is exhausted to the point of falling so luckily into the waiting arms of this strapping young ex-Templar  _ yet again. _

_ “Kevesh!”  _ Dorian curses, trying to right himself while Cullen aids him in standing straighter.  Despite the minor embarrassment and worry over any looks they may or may not be getting, Dorian can’t help but laugh a little deliriously at the situation and soon, Cullen is laughing, too.

“Well, this feels  _ quite  _ familiar,” Dorian murmurs before he can stop himself.

A glorious shade of pink flushes in the apples of Cullen’s cheeks and his low chuckle turns into something a bit more nervous.  His hands do not leave their place on Dorian’s waist, and let it be known,  _ Dorian Pavus does not blush _ .

Cullen’s smile changes to something smaller and more intimate: the crooked grin Cullen gives when Dorian’s being a particularly cheeky arsehole, or when he knows he’s about to best Dorian at a chess game, despite Dorian’s best laid plans to cheat his way to another win.

“That it does,” Cullen says quietly, smile never leaving his face, the brightness in his golden eyes never waning as they bore into the storm of Dorian’s own.

//

Morrigan was soon helped to the infirmary.  Their spirit healers were quickly notified, including Grand Enchanter Fiona, with Vienne on their heels; all the while she was heard stubbornly brushing away any concern directed towards her.  

“That’s our dear Inquisitor for you,” Dorian says fondly.  The line of his body is pressed so closely to Cullen’s that he can feel Dorian’s chest expand, then contract on a weary sigh.  

From the dais leading to the great hall, they watch crowds of growing congratulations while the rest of Inquisitor Lavellan’s companions attempt to weave their way to various corners of the bailey to lick their victory wounds - whether that be in the gentle hands of a nurse or the bitter ale at the tavern bar.  Even still, tired smiles grace most of their faces, much like Dorian’s own when Cullen glances at him. His arm is slung around Dorian’s torso to support the man, despite Dorian’s best efforts to convince Cullen he was perfectly fine just after falling into his… arms…

_ Maker’s breath. _

If he is to think too long on the way his entire body warmed with the rush of blood from his too-quick, nervous heart, Cullen knows he would just be setting himself up for a most painful disappointment.  He’ll have to be content succumbing to friendship, but nothing more. He will never hold Dorian the way he truly wants. So he doesn’t think of how good it feels to have Dorian’s weight against him, nor the feel of him beneath his gloved fingertips.  Dorian is whole, and safe, and they have won.

It must be enough.

Cullen clears his throat and the dour thoughts from his head. “You must be well beyond exhausted, let’s get you to your quarters,” he offers.  Dorian gives him a dubious glare.

“I feel quite like a walking corpse, and I’m sure I look just as  _ alluring,”  _ For emphasis, Dorian curls one end of his still-immaculate moustache and half-heartedly smooths the partial mess of his hair back from his forehead.  “but I think I’ll rest later, right now I’m just looking forward to a hot bath…”

“Ah, I think you look-” Dorian raises a brow as Cullen fumbles for a way to cover up what his traitorous tongue wants to expel from his honest heart. “-fine… um, you look fine,” Cullen finishes and feels his face heat with a blush.  He looks back towards the open double doors behind them once he catches the corner of Dorian’s mouth beginning to curl. Though he wants to, Cullen cannot very well run from the man he’s trying to bodily support at the moment. “The uh, th-the servants readied baths for everyone, in their respective rooms, soon after word of your victory came by raven… though I cannot say whether or not the temperature of the water will still be very inviting.” 

When Cullen ducks his head away from Dorian’s deep stare, he hears a low chuckle from him.  “The perks of being a mage, my dear commander: in a word, I’m quite good at making things…  _ heat up.”  _ Cullen lifts his gaze just in time to see Dorian’s playful smirk.

The harmless flirtations - Cullen realises he’ll miss those once Dorian eventually takes his leave of the Inquisition to return to Tevinter.  He nudges Dorian’s hip a bit with his own as he turns them towards the main doors.  _ “Oh, I’m sure,”  _ he remarks with a smirk of his own, making Dorian’s transition into a full smile as they head up the rest of the steps into the castle’s vestibule.

A bit of vigour returns to Dorian with the shock and surprise of grateful people mulling inside the hall.  They are loud, they are quiet, but they are all thankful. Even guardsmen clasp forearms with Dorian or clap him on the shoulder - the Tevinter Altus no longer a mysterious stranger to tiptoe around, but a comrade; one of the heroes of the Inquisition minstrels and bards will write tale about in the days to come.  Cullen feels pride swell inside his chest like a wave. Finally, they all see what he allowed himself to learn over the passed year or so.

They reach the rotunda with Dorian making surer steps beside Cullen, not leaning so heavily on him now; Cullen’s presence nearly unneeded.  The climbing frescoes seem haunting now that the man who breathed life into them is no longer here. No thin silhouette mingling amongst the dance of candlelight upon their symbolic shapes, no more walking through the circular chamber to the monotonous tune of rough brush strokes whilst trying to avoid the elven mage’s wise gaze.  Cullen knows he must convene with Leliana and Inquisitor Lavellan at some point to theorise Solas’s abrupt departure, but everyone needs a moment to decompress - to truly breathe in relief. He looks across the room and imagines the sad, soulful howl of the painted wolves, lamenting their missing maker. Dorian’s eyes roam the walls as well; nearly every inch their story.

He takes a few steps away from Cullen and crosses his arms over his chest.  One hand lifts to find the collar of his robes and Cullen watches Dorian’s fingers absently running beneath the velvet fabric. “Funny, how things come full-circle, isn’t it?” Dorian murmurs, eyes still trained upwards.  The beautiful curving walls house them in quiet echo, and the flutter of ravens’ wings from the rookery above is like whispering spirits.

Cullen is captivated by a much different beauty and wonder than the ones that surround them.  A regal profile, a smudge of dirt across a clean-shaven jaw, the curve of an elegant throat and the fingers that trail there in thought…  Andraste’s arse, he realises he has not yet answered Dorian. “We’ve certainly seen things through.” He makes sure his voice is filled with the conviction he feels.

Tilting his head in Cullen’s direction, Dorian trains his honeyed-grey eyes on him in such a way that has Cullen’s mouth going bone-dry. “Have we?” Dorian asks, and Cullen does not know if the seriousness in the man’s tone gives the question double-meaning or if it is his own wishful thinking betraying him yet again.

Of course, Cullen deflects; keeps things safe and sure.  He knows what to do with certainty.

“So, how does it feel to be a hero then?” he asks with a smile.  His hand finds the back of his head, ruffling his hair so he has something to do with his hands that doesn’t include reaching out for Dorian’s soothing warmth again.  But Dorian’s face falls a second long enough for Cullen to catch it. It is only a fleeting moment of broken composure, and the mask - however invisible to most - is replaced, thick as gilded papier-mâché.

Dorian pauses, laughs nervously, and it’s strange hearing that unsure undercurrent in something usually so joyous. “Now, now.  I’m not certain  _ I  _ deserve such a title.  I believe our Lady Inquisitor wears that with a better fit, don’t you?  She  _ is  _ the one that did the whole glowy-hand bit to destroy Corypheus and heal the heavens once and for all.  Of course, there  _ was _ the truly negligible part where Morrigan turned into a massive dragon to help fend off Corypheus's  _ pet.   _ I hope Vie plans on giving Morrigan a stern talking to about the attempted upstaging.  The absolute gall...”

Cullen rolls his eyes, though the information itself still unnerves him - just something else he will surely be briefed on the extensive details of soon enough.  _ “So I’ve heard… _ And all that attention  _ you _ got back there was for naught, I assume?”

For Dorian, their roles come easy and it helps Cullen find his footing in this uncomfortable charade.  Dorian shrugs, nonchalant. “I just hurled a few fireballs here and there. Not nearly as impressive, I can assure.”

“Oh come now, you're a veritable knight errant!” Cullen jests with a laugh. “Humility doesn't look good on you, Dorian.”

Dorian taps his index finger upon his full bottom lip as if in thought. “Mm, yes.  But so many other things  _ do,  _ enough to make up for my clumsy breach of character.” He uncrosses his arms and brings himself closer to Cullen. “Don't tell anyone, will you?” 

Fist over his heart, Cullen makes a shallow bow with a grin plastered on his face. “You have my word it will remain between us.”

That easily recognisable glint is back in Dorian’s mischievous eyes, giving Cullen a strange feeling of security.  When the guard is down, the man beneath is easily accessible for Cullen. He worries less about doublespeak and more about the words he can say to perhaps extend his time with and learn about the  _ real Dorian.   _ It’s how he knows Dorian does not really enjoy sweets unless there is honey involved; his favourite place in Skyhold is actually the gardens, not the library, but he is never comfortable there for long if Mother Giselle is out there as well - still associating the woman with the prick of hurt his father caused with his artifice in Redcliffe; and that as a child, Dorian had often longed for a pet of his own, but was denied time and again by his parents because of all his time being away at circles.  In Dorian’s words (mimicking his mother, if Cullen remembers correctly), “Magisters do not own  _ pets,  _ that is what  _ slaves  _ are for.” Even now, Cullen wants to grimace at the memory.

“Truly,” Cullen begins to add. “everyone involved deserves the praise they receive, and that includes you.” He lets a hand rest on Dorian’s bare bicep, both cursing and thanking the barrier of his gloves.  His thumb glides along taut muscle of its own volition, anyway. “You risked your life for the Inquisition before you’d even joined up, Dorian. Do not downplay your braveries.”

Dorian’s face briefly lights up in something like mild shock. “Says the man braver than I,” he murmurs, then frowns, dropping his gaze. “I must say, I’m not sure how to handle being ‘the good Tevinter’ now.”

So badly does Cullen want to grasp Dorian’s chin and gently tilt his face back up himself.  He knows full well how inappropriate that would be, so he tries for something more amicable to bring back Dorian’s sly mien. “Somehow, I think you’ll manage.” Cullen hopes Dorian hears the smile in his words.

Dorian sighs, but raises his head. “Yes, and my boots will lament the loss of strangers’ saliva.  It's amazing what a little disdain can do for one's accuracy when spitting.”

“A grand pity,” Cullen snarks, and lets his hand drop from Dorian’s arm finally.

For a beat, a comfortable cocoon of silence surrounds them; the din of voices and laughter in the hall no real bother.  It is Dorian’s rich voice that breaks through it first. “Well, my friend, I think I hear the not so distant call of a promised bath in my quarters.”

Ah, so this is where they part.  Cullen ignores and replaces the disappointment in his heart for understanding. “I- Right.  You’re feeling better then, I take it? If you still need-”

Dorian laughs, and it’s musical and mocking and perfect. “Tsk, tsk.  Look at you, mother-henning me! Did you intend to walk me to my door, Cullen?”

Cullen’s brows pull downward as he sputters with indignation. “I only, it isn’t that I don’t think you capable, I-  _ Maker’s breath…” _ Pinching the bridge of his nose, he continues. “I only thought that perhaps you were still feeling quite tired and meant to offer assistance up to your room… if you so needed it, of course.” 

“You worried after me, didn’t you?” Dorian smiles as if he’s hit the nail on the head, and Cullen cannot argue that he has.

He swallows down the lump in his throat. “I’ll admit, not knowing what was happening at the Temple… and only being able to do so much here, holding down the fortress, was… harrowing to say the least.  It wasn’t until we saw the breach close that I could…” Cullen trailed off.  _ That I could breathe a sigh of relief, know it was over, know there was a chance you were safe,  _ he thought to himself. “We were glad to see you all return.”

Dorian is quiet for a few breaths and then, “How about this, come to my quarters after the eighth bell and we can catch up…  _ properly, _ mm?  I’ll share in all the sordid details I’m sure your curious mind is plenty atwitter over.” He walked towards the stairwell without a glance back at Cullen, which left him rather gobsmacked.

“I- uhm…  _ yes.”  _ Cullen bows, feeling rather too hot in his armour now.  His jaw quivers as he tries to form more words. “With your leave then, Dorian.”

As he crosses back into the hall, Cullen tries his damnedest to force away the smile that makes its way across his face, but finds he is apparently quite unsuccessful by the way more than a few people give him curious glances; more importantly though, he finds that he does not mind. 


	2. Still Hands Tied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Dorian have a little... shall we say, "war with words." Who will come out on _top_ is anyone's guess, but there'll certainly be no losers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"When I was at your doorstep  
>  You told me to look around  
> Said come in,  
> You and your heart sit down  
> But you better watch your step,  
> Cause you're not far from the ground  
> And one fine day this all falls down_
> 
> _If you got something to say,  
>  Why don't you say it?  
> If you've got something to give,  
> Why don't you give it to me?  
> Day after day, I have to say it  
> If we've got something to save,  
> Why don't we save it?"_
> 
> \- George Michael, _"Something to Save"_
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter, and the rest that's upcoming, have been heavily influenced by both "Something to Save" and "A Moment with You" by George Michael<3 I'm not saying you should listen to at least one of those, but I'm not _not_ saying you should, either.

 

Truth be told, Dorian isn’t quite sure what he’s doing.  Which is not the most pleasant thing to admit to himself, per se.  He knows he’s pruning himself in the depths of his copper bath, yes, but in the much grander scheme of things, he’s the sneaking suspicion he is, in some fashion, making a fool of himself - or is certainly on his way to doing so.

Eating what he could stomach, completing his ablutions, and relaxing his muscles in the now tepid water is about as far as he’s got, which seems perfectly reasonable to Dorian considering, well… _everything._ Though the sinking sun had brought with it an unwelcome chill to the air, Dorian doesn’t entirely feel like expending the energy or magic required to reheat the water to steaming again right now, either.  It would interrupt his mild sulking, besides. He reaches up to the linen towel cushioning his head, taking the soft fringe that borders it between his fingers, twisting it idly as he huffs out a breath of mild annoyance at his innermost thoughts.

The entirety of the last two days is a lot to take in, what with his aid in saving the world and doing a fair job of not dying while doing so.  However, Dorian cannot grasp a strong enough hold on the concept of the everything _after._ Since joining the Inquisition’s cause (that certainly helped him face up to the desire to formulate his own) he had been living his life a day at a time - which was not entirely different than the way he’d lived in Tevinter.  Granted, his life back at home _was_ a little more predictable, of course.  New and _true_ friendships, a modicum of hard-won acceptance, and travelling all over southern Thedas was not something Dorian could have foreseen for himself over a year ago; particularly, not from under the thumb of his parents nor the Magisterium’s all-seeing-eye.

 _Venhedis,_ but he’d _truly_ never have predicted the always ruggedly handsome, sometimes far too tetchy for his own good, puppy-dog-of-a-man that is Cullen Stanton Rutherford.  Felix would be having a field day with all of this if he could see Dorian now. He scoffs at himself for the way his heart gives a little lurch and closes his eyes, fingers of his other hand settling on the water’s surface to slowly heat it again.

The friendship he has with an ex-Templar is quite possibly the unlikeliest one Dorian has forged thus far.  An ex-Templar with more wounds on his soul than he has on his body, if Dorian were to hazard a guess from the many hurts Cullen has imparted on him.  Not that Dorian hasn’t divulged his own woes to his friend over a bottle of Antivan brandy, now… but that _is_ beside the point.  

He finds… an odd sort of _comfort_ in Cullen’s warm company, if Dorian’s to be honest with himself - which is also a rather newly acquired talent, he’s noted.  The candour with which Cullen carries himself is much more sincere than Dorian’s own artless demeanour to say whatever is on his mind.  There is a sense of open-heartedness about Cullen that makes Dorian want to bridge the gap between them, or at the very least, learn how to.  Dorian is nothing if not eager-minded, after all.

Cullen is not a creature of social venture, so - when time has inconsistently allowed it - _their_ time is usually spent solely within each other’s company, or as alone as they can manage in the walls of a bustling keep.  Normally, they hole up in Cullen’s quarters where the man can easily side-eye his stacks of missives from the comfort of his desk.  It’s almost sickening really, the way he can give such looks of longing to utterly menial drudgery. To be sure, Dorian is always trying his level best to drag Cullen from the clutches of his quicksand-like work ethic.  At times, they still meet in the garden’s gazebo where they’re left blessedly alone to unwind and rib one another over a game of chess... until duty calls either of them away. Of course, all of these meetings have been prime time for Dorian to let his undeniable charm shine and selfishly admire his friend.  The fact that Cullen eventually stopped acting as if he might choke up his poor heart every time Dorian flirted with him or even _implied_ innuendo, has been a very curious thing; one Dorian has had a fair amount of time to ruminate on for months now.  It’s the reason he’d invented this little contrivance of inviting Cullen to his room.

The man aroused more than just a little _curiosity_ in Dorian.

Now, not only did Cullen become more comfortable with Dorian having a bit of fun in making him blush, but the stoic-yet-shy commander gave as good as he got from Dorian after a time.  The first instance it happened, they were in Cullen’s office due to inclement weather rudely raining out their chess game, and Dorian had simply chalked it up to Cullen feeling more at ease in his own quarters out of view from prying eyes and wagging tongues.  He could have even blamed it on the brandy, but then Cullen proceeded to flirt back with Dorian _publicly._ Out in the garden, in the library, it didn’t seem to matter.  On occasion, Dorian even considered trying to make the man turn the very colour of his crimson cloak by catching Cullen off-guard with something truly suggestive, but thought the better of it.  The Inquisition had need of their commander, afterall. And it wouldn’t do to have Dorian be the cause of his untimely demise via the entirety of Cullen’s blood rushing away from important parts to gather in that lovely face of his.

He just doesn’t know what it all means, if anything.  In Tevinter, there’d be no hope for it to be anything other than a pleasure-seeking dance with a temporary partner.  But by the Maker, is Dorian interested in knowing if that stupid little ache that swells beneath his breastbone whenever Cullen is around isn’t a mutual thing.

Dorian just doesn’t know if the price of friendship is a high enough cost to pay for a missing piece in his life.

He’s pulled from his mental blathering by a meek knock at his door.  Dorian sighs, then calls out, “The _evil mage_ isn’t home, I’m afraid!” He’s half a mind to send a lightning spell-

 _“Dorian?”_ he hears Cullen’s muffled voice from the other side of the wood.  Oh. He’s certainly wasted away his time, hasn’t he? Has it truly been a few hours already?  Dorian honestly hasn’t paid mind to the tolling of the hour bells since his return to Skyhold.

Now, this could certainly be interesting.  Dorian has one of two options to quickly decide on: either he can send Cullen on his merry way and tell him to come back in an hour, which would be terribly uncivil of him to do so, considering _he_ is the one who invited Cullen up here to begin with; _or_ the more enticing choice, letting his curiosity get the best of both of them.

“Well, in that case, there’s nothing for it, I suppose…” he mutters to himself before calling for Cullen to enter.

After a moment, Cullen walks in; oddly though, he doesn’t look towards Dorian and the feast he’s set himself up to be. “I was worried perhaps you’d fallen asleep and I’d disturbed you,” Cullen is saying.  He’s forgone his usual armour, which is always a pleasant surprise; clad only in a burgundy tunic and deep brown leather trews. Dorian then notices, as Cullen quickly turns to fumble with closing the door, that he’s got an armful of… something.

“Not at all.” Dorian’s mouth curls into a predatory grin from where he’s perched himself on his folded arms along the bath’s edge. “Oh, and get the latch too, if you don't mind?” It isn’t an unusual thing for Cullen to sometimes lock _all three_ doors to his office against interruption when they’re visiting with one another.  Dorian can only assume the man never had ulterior motives behind the simple gesture - unlike Dorian in this moment.  Watching Cullen struggle with what he now sees is a wine bottle and two glasses, Dorian smiles to himself. _Very interesting._  He plucks at the curled ends of his moustache, making sure he’s the perfect image of purposeful, wet-dishabille. “Need a hand, Commander?”

When Cullen turns around after finally winning his battle with the door handle and latch, his jaw drops - and very nearly the burden in his arms with it.

“Dorian!” he gasps, hastily putting his back to Dorian again. “I-I… You'd said after the eighth bell, and I-” Cullen sucks in another breath and rights the glassware in his left hand. “My apologies, I _have_ disturbed you, but the door was- I can c-come back.”

“Nonsense.  And you've brought refreshments, I see?”

Cullen ignores the question, instead saying over his shoulder, “I’ve interrupted you, _clearly._  Send word for me after you’ve finished... bathing, or… or we could adjourn until tomorrow once you’re well rested.”

Dorian sighs.  Maker damn Cullen’s chivalry. “I’m feeling _quite_ well rested now, thank you.  You aren’t interrupting anything, Commander.  ‘Adjourn until tomorrow,’ he says.” Dorian chuckles. “Really, must you always be so formal?”

For a few seconds, Cullen says nothing.  But by the tense hunch in his broad shoulders, Dorian can tell he’s a bit miffed at Dorian’s insistence that all is truly well.

_“Dorian.”_

Oh, and there it is, the parental-like reprimand Cullen so often doles out when Dorian is feeling particularly contrarian.  Gooseflesh prickles down between his shoulder blades.

“I will not impose on you while you’re bathing,” Cullen finishes, voice terse.

“Well, it’s a good thing I’ve finished then, isn’t it?” Dorian asks, but to be sure he isn’t pushing his luck with his dear friend, he poses another question for Cullen, keeping his tone more serious and his voice low. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

But as if Dorian has just issued the man a challenge, Cullen straightens his back and does an about-face.  Dorian quells a little disappointment in his gut that Cullen lets his gaze fall anywhere but on him. “You are not making me un-uncomfortable, no,” Cullen grits out. “But I’d prefer it if we conversed while you were… _decent.”_

Honestly, Dorian wants to laugh, remind the good commander that he’s never been _decent_ in his life.  Instead, he waves a dismissive hand in front of his face then slinks backwards to rest his head on his towel. “Can’t be helped now.”

Cullen makes an exasperated, choked-off sound. “Can’t be- Maker!  I’d have to _disagree.”_ As Cullen scowls, Dorian raises an eyebrow at his loud carrying on.  This time, Cullen does not look away. “Do you not have…” He gestures with the wine bottle as if he might conjure the word he is looking for from thin air. “a-a _robe_ somewhere?” Cullen’s eyes are wide as he looks to Dorian, aghast.   _So dramatic._ You’d think he was some holier-than-thou, uptight chantry mother, not a backwoods Ferelden with the way he’s acting so scandalised.

“Oh, I do,” Dorian says plainly and runs a hand through his damp hair, sure to show off the flex of his bicep as he does so.

Cullen looks around the room for a moment until he asks Dorian _where_ very pointedly.  Lifting one shoulder, Dorian shrugs in response before answering verbally, “Somewhere.”

Rolling his eyes, Cullen walks over to the small sideboard near Dorian’s desk and sets down the wine and both glasses near Dorian’s half-eaten supper.  He sighs loudly as he plants his hands atop the dark wood. “I... came here out of armour for the sole purpose of no boundaries between us, no roles to hide behind... Just complete trust.  But it seems you still wear yours.” Cullen turns to Dorian, leaning one hip against the sideboard. If Dorian didn’t know any better, he’d say his friend looked defeated; resigned. “I won’t chase you around the dizzying circles you create, Dorian.  I don’t have the daring for it.”

 _Oh no,_ Dorian thinks to himself.   _We are_ not _doing this._

“What are you insinuating, pray tell?  I can certainly tell it’s _something._ I may not be entirely fordone, Commander, but I _am_ still a mite exhausted, so you’ll have to forgive me if your indirectness is posing a bit of a _challenge_ for me.  Or would saying _exactly_ what’s on your mind hurt your Ferelden pride?”

The low rumble of a quiet laugh leaves Cullen. “You are both a fool and a hypocrite.”

Well, perhaps Dorian couldn’t argue with that statement, but he wasn’t going to let on that Cullen was even remotely correct in his opinion.  Dorian opens his mouth to lob a witty rebuke back at Cullen, but he’s swiftly cut off.

“Why did you ask me here, tonight?” Cullen crosses his arms.  Again, Dorian tries to speak, but Cullen doesn’t let him. “Why not tomorrow, after you’d rested?  And then w-we could have met in my office as per usual. You’ve… you've never in-invited me into your rooms until _now.”_ The cracks in Cullen’s nervous tone are dripping with playful suspicion.  More quietly and calmly, he asks, “Why now, Dorian?”

Backed into a corner like this, Dorian wants nothing more than to keep up his comfortable defences; strike on the offence so as not to reveal the soft underbelly he has for this man.  Tell him the thought of dying on a battlefield, that the finality of it before saying… _No,_ he couldn’t risk it.

Dorian sits forward, pulling his knees up and stares at Cullen with intent.  The slosh of the water against the glittering metal walls of the bath are the only sounds in the room - that is, until he hears the nigh imperceptible hitch of breath in Cullen’s throat when Dorian pulls himself up to rest on his knees.  The position exposes his wet torso to the slight chill in the air, but it is worth it to watch the way Cullen attempts to hide his squirming in the tightening of his arms folded over his chest, the crossing of one ankle over the other, a flex in his stubbled jaw.  

With a thought, Dorian commands the brazier in his room to burn hotter, the candles within lanterns to glow a little brighter.  Cullen’s eyes flit away from Dorian for only half a breath to survey the blatant, mundane use of his magic.

Dorian smiles wickedly and grips the edge of the bath in front of him. “I asked you to come here for the same reason you haven’t yet left.  The same reason you greeted _me_ before the Inquisitor upon our return.” He leans forward a little, sure that his arse is likely in view if Cullen is of a mind to _look._ “The very reason I catch your eyes lingering when I want to partake in a furtive glance of my own,” Dorian adds for good measure.

 _“Say it,”_ Cullen orders, his voice beginning to take on the sharp edge of a growl reserved for his recruits.  Dorian isn’t used to being on the receiving end of someone else’s goading, and he doesn’t much like it.  As if Cullen is speaking anymore plainly about his own wants in this matter.

“Mm… So, does the commander like to play hard to get?  Is that it? Or is it all in the chase? Do you enjoy being floundering prey for serpents that lie in wait, dying for their sharp bite and suffocating coil?” Dorian can tell by the slightly quickened rise and fall of his chest, that his metaphor was not lost on Cullen.

“I wouldn’t expect you to _take me_ so easily.” Cullen’s voice has gained a rasp, but gone is the endearing stammer that would suggest bashfulness.

Dorian takes it as a bid to press him again. “Is this why you’ve never made good on those thoughts I know are spinning ‘round in your head; why it’s the _looks_ you give me during chess matches or conversation that I must parse to know you’d rather be bending me _over_ your desk than have me sitting across from you?  Or perhaps your eyes are begging for _me_ to put you in _your_ place, Commander.  But you never tell in your actions, mind...” Dorian laughs, and it’s bitter and cold in his gut, and he doesn’t want to pick apart the reasons for his aggravation at the moment. “Maker forbid you-”

A deprecating smirk curves one side of Cullen’s mouth as he spits out, _“I would rend your armour from you with only a word of your permission.”_

The words hit Dorian slowly and with purpose, like an impending threat.  He is almost assured that is how Cullen meant them. Cullen’s eyes are like embers in the firelight, and Dorian imagines the heat of them travelling through his veins to set his blood alight.  This little war with oblique words is something Dorian no longer wishes to participate in, quite frankly. It’s wearing his patience paper-thin. If Cullen wants transparency, he’ll certainly give it to him.

When Dorian begins to stand from the water, Cullen’s smile falters only slightly, and Dorian can’t be arsed to care enough about the visible… _effect_ Cullen’s suggestion has had on him to feel any shred of shame right now.  The touch of a blush blooms down from Cullen’s face to trail beneath the v of his tunic into the dip of his clavicle, but his eyes do not wander.  Even as Dorian looks himself up and down, it seems Cullen’s gaze remains unwavering on his face.

“I see no armour here,” Dorian says with a salacious glare.

“Dorian,” Cullen begins, but the soft shape of Dorian’s name on Cullen’s Ferelden tongue holds no censure this time.  He swallows, perhaps collecting bravery from some unending well of fortitude before he continues. “You do not need to bear a stitch of leather or cloth for me to see that you hide.”

Ah, though Cullen apparently still believes he has the upper hand in this situation, he takes hold of his bottom lip between his teeth, rolling the pinkened flesh.

Dorian tilts his chin up, making sure his half-lidded eyes are still locked with Cullen’s, and drags a hand across his lower belly, just shy of closely manicured dark curls.  His cock twitches with the promise of touch. “And is that _all_ that you see, Commander?” He barely keeps the sigh out of his voice as he forces his tempted hand up towards his navel.

“You’d stop calling me by my _title_ if you were being honest.” The bite in Cullen’s words is back and oh, how Dorian wants to stoke that fire to see just what catches in its flames.

“I can think of more than a few ways to have me calling out your name, and you mine, _Cullen._  But, for someone so concerned about there being no boundaries between us, you certainly don't seem intent on crossing a _particular_ one.” Dorian watches as Cullen uncrosses his arms and stands straighter, taking a step forward.  Dorian doesn’t pause long enough for interruption, though. “No, you just tip-toe around it, as if I can ignore the looks you've given me, the way you _speak_ to me when we're alone.  _Fasta vass,_ I'm standing before you, fucking nude, and-”

Cullen, without a single word, reaches behind his head to grasp the collar of his tunic, pulling it over his head with fluid movement.  And like a Templar’s smite, Dorian is rendered momentarily powerless; his aplomb obliterated with force.

“Get out of the bath, Dorian,” Cullen snaps at him with his somehow-still-gentle cadence.

“What- what are you doing?” Oh, of course. _Of course_ Dorian’s brain chooses this very second to stop functioning, betraying him _and_ his tongue to produce such an idiotic question!

With a few sure strides, Cullen reaches Dorian and cups the side of his face rather roughly, fingers digging into the nape of his neck.  But Dorian still detects the anxious tremor in Cullen's palm where it rests at his jaw. His face is close enough that their noses touch, and Dorian can feel each small, frustrated puff of breath that leaves Cullen’s mouth as he practically _commands_ Dorian. “Stop acting like a spoilt child and _step out of the bath_ so that my actions may show you what my eyes apparently could not.”

And in that very instant, with the hushed sound of Cullen’s grave voice in his ears, his scarred mouth close enough to taste, the electrified frisson that Dorian feels jolt through his entire being could carry a lightning storm.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frustrating, aren't they? I swear we're going to earn that "E" rating, guys. Just sit tight!
> 
> Comments/feedback & kudos always much adored<3


	3. Flood the Harbour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There was a time, I need not name,  
>  Since it will ne'er forgotten be,  
> When all our feelings were the same  
> As still my soul hath been to thee._
> 
> _And from that hour when first thy tongue  
>  Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,  
> Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,  
> Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine,_
> 
> _None, none hath sunk so deep as this–  
>  To think how all that love hath flown;  
> Transient as every faithless kiss,  
> But transient in thy breast alone._
> 
> _And yet my heart some solace knew,  
>  When late I heard thy lips declare,  
> In accents once imagined true,  
> Remembrance of the days that were._
> 
> _Yes! my adored, yet most unkind!  
>  Though thou wilt never love again,  
> To me 'tis doubly sweet to find  
> Remembrance of that love remain._
> 
> _Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me,  
>  Nor longer shall my soul repine,  
> Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be,  
> Thou hast been dearly, solely mine._
> 
> \--Lord George Gordon Byron, _“There Was A Time, I Need Not Name”_
> 
>  
> 
> *****Okay, so please mind the new tags that come with this chapter!! The only implications to non-con and torture are vague/ambiguous reference to Cullen's torture in Kinloch Hold. That part of his past has partially affected the sexuality of my version of Cullen within this story. I am also using the term "demisexual" in a loose sense, as sexuality itself is obviously a deeply personal, varied experience from person to person. However, if I had to label how Cullen is in this story, "demisexual" would be the closest fit, I suppose. If you disagree with this entire interpretation of mine for Cullen, then quietly carry on and find the little "x" in the top right corner of your tab or window. This is a _transformative_ work, after all.**
> 
> Also, I hope everyone likes very long chapters with filthy sex! Because apparently, I sure do!

  
  


Ever so gracefully, Dorian steps over the lip of the bath.  He doesn’t reach out for Cullen to maintain balance, simply presses the weight of his jaw into Cullen's hand as he guides Dorian like a reined mount from the safety of a stable.  Cullen watches for disruption in Dorian’s serene expression. He doesn’t know why he’s looking or half-hoping for some sort of change exactly, but he thinks it might be due to the desire to glimpse into the chasm he’s spread wide from the fissure already struck into Dorian’s façade.

Before Cullen is every inch of skin he had only ever dreamt of touching, but instead of immediately giving into that reality, he remains focused on Dorian’s face.  He runs his thumb over the beauty mark high upon Dorian’s right cheekbone and Dorian closes his eyes briefly.

“Are you quite done bossing me around, Cullen?” Dorian asks, airily.  Cullen smiles at him – he’s always enjoyed the way the last syllable of his name sounded as it left Dorian’s high-born mouth.  

He brings his other hand to rest over the side of Dorian’s neck. “Well, you’re finally listening, but you’re still afraid.”

Dorian scoffs. “You’re starting to sound like Cole.”

Cullen laughs, bites his lip to prevent the strength of rapture he feels from taking him over.  Perhaps he has let the spirit’s helpful company influence his thoughts more than he’d anticipated – an idea he would have violently balked at not so long ago.  His time with the Inquisition has affected Cullen and his desire for change in himself by leaps and bounds. He has a renewed faith in others he dared not think possible before, and a newfound faith birthing inside  _ for  _ himself, though that is a thing much more trying he still finds.

Cullen uses that credence, that instinct to trust his gut, to make yet another leap. “I…” Taking a steeling breath in the face of Dorian’s questioning look, Cullen pushes himself onward. “I feel for you a great deal, Dorian...” 

Heart feeling as if it might expel from his mouth, even though his throat now feels entirely too tight for something as ridiculous as that to happen, Cullen is thankful his words were steady, if not a little shaky.  He realises he’s looked away from Dorian. His nerves are telling him two things at once before he chances a glance back at Dorian: to remove his hands from him or to keep them where they are lest he appear a coward.

The knit between Dorian’s brows isn’t encouraging.

“Now you’ve gone and given it words, you foolish man.”

“Doublespeak is all you’ve given me tonight, I thought I might provide something a little more honest.  Was I wrong to?” Cullen presses closer until he can feel the slippery damp of Dorian’s skin press along the line of his chest and stomach.  He leans his head forward so that his lips ghost against Dorian’s temple. “Shall I take it back?” There is a drop of humour in his voice that Cullen doesn’t quite feel committed to.

“Don’t you dare,” Dorian hisses.

Cullen tilts his head down until he can slant his mouth over Dorian’s.  The kiss is slower, more passionate than perhaps both their frayed restraint calls for, and Cullen surprises himself by being the first to moan into it.  Dorian’s fingers are playing at his sides, dull nails scraping as his hands smooth upwards towards Cullen’s shoulders. He pulls away when Dorian’s hips move against his own, and  _ Maker,  _ he can feel the length of him pressed tight against his groin.

With a firm grip on Dorian’s arms, Cullen lets himself steal a glance between them, tipping Dorian back at the waist a little ways so he can watch the friction in motion as he rolls his hips upwards just a fraction.  Dorian reacts with a soft sigh, for once not in vexation of Cullen’s inaction. He pushes against Cullen – tries to gain back some of the control he’s supplanted with pleasure while attempting to lead them towards the bed – but Cullen pulls him up short.  It is for a mere heartbeat though, as a mild sort of panic begins to spark in Cullen’s chest at the unexpected interposition in his tactic. The nagging anxiety he’s grown accustomed to is threatening to rear its head passed the fog of desire, even as his own legs seem to take him on an instinctive path backwards through a room he owes no familiarity, moved by a man in whom he is greedy for just that.

It is that humbling fear in the moment which has him asking, “Wait– Do… do we want the same thing?  And I’m… not speaking of the want that steers us to your bed, Dorian.”

“Is what you want beyond wherever tonight takes us?” Dorian asks in reply.  There is an unsure waver to his voice.

“If I…” Cullen swallows, his mouth gone tacky with nervous anticipation. “If I were to say yes…” He doesn’t know how to finish the thought, but Dorian is already speaking.

“I’m not going to turn you into a  _ toad  _ if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Cullen smiles as hope curls inside his chest.  But, he doesn’t let it stick just yet. “Frankly, that isn’t something we mages  _ do  _ in the Magisterium… that I’m aware of, anyway.  Look, Cullen,” Dorian narrows his eyes, then looks away. “I pride myself on not being terribly keen on lies and…  _ verbal  _ deceit, so I suppose I shan’t mince words and simply tell you how thoroughly…  _ relieved  _ I am that you…” Dorian’s voice grows quieter, less cocksure. “want for something passed the carnal, with me.” He looks to Cullen again, expression inscrutable.

“You are the only person I have wanted to let this close.” Cullen takes Dorian’s face in his hands. “I only wonder why we waited until now.”

Closing his eyes, Dorian leans his forehead against Cullen’s. “Yes, well, narrowly dodging the end of the world does things for one’s…  _ perspective. _  Truth be told, there are times I have feared we’ve gotten  _ too  _ close, amatus.” 

Though he badly wants to investigate its meaning, Cullen leaves the word  _ “amatus” _ to its foreign mystery – for now.

“And my fear is that if I don’t let you closer still,” Cullen presses in against Dorian again. “you’ll slip from me forever.”

This time, Cullen lets his hands roam when Dorian kisses him unexpectedly.  His fingers find the soft edge of a lengthy scar that crosses over Dorian’s flank, and Dorian must take notice of his exploration, as he gives Cullen’s bottom lip a harsh, reprimanding tug between his teeth.  But it causes a rapid heat to rise throughout Cullen.

Making a low sound of disappointment, Dorian looks down at his side, to the slash of pale, raised flesh. “Yes, they've ruined me, you see?”

_ Hardly,  _ Cullen thinks to himself.  Chuckling, he says of his own scars, “If you are ruined, then  _ I  _ must be truly disfigured.”

“Nonsense,” Dorian scolds, smoothing his hands up Cullen’s chest.  The tips of his fingers trail deliberate paths over Cullen’s nipples, further raising the already hardened flesh.  A shiver runs through Cullen at the touch, even as that building heat begins to pool at his thighs and even more so between them.

Dorian’s hands slide upwards over Cullen’s shoulders to his upper back.  Cullen can feel a strange tingling sensation as Dorian finds a cluster of dead nerves at the center of an old burn scar.  He can recall it being from a well-aimed fireball during one of his final years in Kirkwall. Dorian’s touch moves onwards until his hands still at the side of Cullen’s neck and face. “I rather like the marks upon your skin,” Dorian starts, his mouth curving into a smile. “They’re a detailed map of a life lived that I can physically trace along your body.” Though the words spill as if he’s enchanted, Cullen knows Dorian is likely sincere, as ridiculous as he sounds.  But, Cullen is the one who knows exactly what made most of those marks that mar his skin. He’d go so far as to say he had deserved many of them, but he doesn’t want to ruin the mood with his self-loathing.

Cullen diverts himself away from those negative thoughts by trailing a finger from Dorian’s scar to a small mole beside his navel.  He levels his gaze with Dorian’s asking, “And what of yours?”

“Mm?  Fine examples of well-bred perfection… with a dash of carelessness, I’m afraid.” Dorian frowns a few seconds before his mouth twists into a sneer. “Some foolhardy Templar thought he’d try to get a closer look at my insides once he’d silenced my magic.” Cullen tenses at the explanation, and a bit too noticeably, because Dorian’s hands are immediately cradling the back of his head, thumbs moving in soothing circles behind his ears. “Hush now, Commander.  Vie and Cole took care of him with a few well-placed arrows and daggers, I assure you. No need to fret, I’ve been through much worse.  _ Quite  _ recently, if memory serves.  Yet here I stand, whole.”

“And thank the Maker for that.” Cullen rushes to claim Dorian’s mouth once more, pulling him into a tight embrace.  This time, he’s entirely unafraid to show his desperation or the gratitude at having Dorian in his arms. The relief Cullen had experienced at seeing Dorian alive and well upon his return hours ago was greater than he could have anticipated.  Cullen doesn’t know how he’d have fared if he had lost the one person he feels any sort of deep connection with. 

While it’s true that Inquisitor Lavellan was Thedas’s only sure hope for beating the odds against Corypheus and the Venatori’s sinister plans, for Cullen personally, Dorian has been just as irreplaceable.

Cullen has Dorian humming in pleasure when he rolls his tongue sinfully against his in time with the movement of his hips.  They’re both achingly hard and breathless when Dorian breaks away. “I’ve a suggestion,” he breathes against Cullen’s mouth. “How about... we start making up for lost time and leave all that troublesome worrying for another day, yes?”

Cullen can’t disagree, but he also cannot pass up a chance to tease Dorian a little first.  He lays a few chaste kisses to Dorian’s lips. “I thought you’d be telling me tales of your heroism when you asked me to meet you up here.  These aren’t the sort of ‘sordid details’ I’d imagined you had in mind to share this evening. Though I... cannot find it in me to complain about the details you’ve chosen to focus on instead.” Cullen smiles crookedly, letting his hands run over Dorian’s lower back, down to his arse.

“Ohh, but they are the kinds of details I’d much prefer to get lost in tonight,” Dorian’s voice is hushed and velvety soft.  He brings a hand up to Cullen’s face, slowly tracing a finger below his left eye and across the bridge of his nose. “as are all  _ these  _ little ones…”

When it dawns on Cullen that Dorian speaks of his Maker-damned _ freckles,  _ he wants to heave a sigh of irritation.  He narrows his eyes and squeezes at Dorian’s rear.  Dorian sucks in a little gasp and as they both laugh, and Cullen – with a meagre amount of renewed patience – allows Dorian to continue in his hands-on observations.

Dorian’s fingers ghost beneath Cullen’s right eye to find the inches-long span of skin that forever leaves his smile forked.  A physical reminder that Cullen glimpses in his reflection daily; a reminder that he could very well have remained, _ or died as, _ one of Meredith’s mad Templars had he not chosen to finally think for himself and spoken for those who could - or dared - not.

Just as Cullen is about to open his mouth, Dorian’s fingers move from the scar to his lips as if he could foresee Cullen’s protest.  He smiles at Cullen mischievously. “You’re very attractive, you know.” Dorian cocks his head like an inquisitive bird. “But I don’t think you do, do you?”

Flattery is undoubtedly not something Cullen knows how to deal with; he loathed all the flowery chatter and pawing he had dealt with in Halamshiral, but the look in Dorian’s eyes does not speak of ulterior motives and winning good favour.  The pompous, invasive Orlesians had not caused a flush of a more enjoyable nature to fill Cullen’s cheeks, either.

He snatches Dorian’s hand away, smiling. “Stop it, you’re ridiculous,” Cullen whispers as he looks away, trying in vain to hide just how flustered Dorian has him.

“Ah, there it is!” Dorian remarks, laughing. “That beautiful shade of pink you turn that I do find so very endearing.” 

Cullen then realises he still holds onto Dorian’s hand, their fingers lightly twined, and blushes further.  He sighs and kisses Dorian’s fingertips. He knows Dorian is used to compliments – Maker, he gives them freely enough unto himself whenever possible – but Cullen doubts he is used to the  _ truth.  _ “Would that I could,” Cullen looks into Dorian’s warm, grey eyes and places his hand at the center of his chest.  Dorian’s heart beats in a rhythm that betrays his sure confidence. “I’d find a way to reflect back the beauty I see within you, Dorian.”

Dorian gives a surprised laugh, blinking rapidly with a small, crooked grin that is gone just as quickly as it’d come as he shakes his head.  Cullen’s heart sinks a little, worried he’d sounded insincere. Poetry was never his strong suit. “I’m sorry, did I–” 

But Dorian smiles again and covers Cullen’s hand where it rests over his heart with his own. “You are sweetness in a world gone remarkably bitter,  _ leo meus. _  It’s a... welcome surprise.”

The disarming way Dorian looks at him has Cullen coming undone.  He pulls Dorian to him, mashing their mouths together perhaps a little too roughly before the words,  _ I think my heart has known love for you even before I had the chance to  _ can attempt an escape from his tongue as the thought grows too large for his mind.  

Dorian wraps his arms around Cullen’s neck, fingers grabbing and digging in his hair.  Cullen moans into the kiss, slowing it down as he embraces Dorian tighter to him. They shuffle backwards towards Dorian’s bed where Cullen bends to kiss along the scar at Dorian’s side.  He crouches before Dorian, taking him in hand with a few lazy strokes. As his thumb circles the wet head of Dorian’s cock, Cullen breathes out a shaky exhale against Dorian’s hip in response to the gratifying sensory overload he is experiencing.  It’s the combination of the sound of Dorian’s pleased groan from above, feeling his nails scratch up his nape, and the infinitesimal thrust he gives into Cullen’s fist. It is enough for Cullen, but Maker, does he want to give Dorian more.

He glances up at Dorian as he suckles and kisses at the root of him.  Dorian’s brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted, and it is possibly the most enticing Cullen has ever seen the man.

Licking at his slit, the salt-taste of Dorian and the soft  _ “ohh”s  _ falling from his mouth spurn Cullen on.  As he brings Dorian’s foreskin down from his weeping cockhead with one tight stroke, Cullen wraps his lips around Dorian to follow the path of his hand, eagerly savouring the weight of him on his tongue.  Cullen shouldn’t feel so comfortable on his knees for Dorian, but something about doing this for him feels like proper worship.

The voice of Cullen’s own desire lessens to a whispered warmth that settles comfortably low in his belly.  His eyelids flutter closed as he bobs his head, mouth enveloping Dorian’s length with fervour. Cullen’s hands remain busy of their own accord as one roams up over a taut, clenching stomach, the other half-gripping Dorian’s cock while two fingers brush over his sac.

Dorian nearly shouts out a moan and Cullen responds with his own vocal contentment deep within his throat where he knows Dorian can  _ feel  _ more than hear it.  Soon, Dorian’s fingers are combing through Cullen’s hair, smoothing back wayward curls from his forehead.  Cullen opens his eyes once more when he feels Dorian’s hand cradle the area between his neck and jaw - presumably where he can feel Cullen’s throat work in tandem with his tongue over his rigid cock.  Dorian’s fingers pet at the line of Cullen’s jaw in a gentle, praising fashion; his expression bearing an arousing mix of fondness and utter pleasure. 

The spicy, woodsy scent of Dorian’s soaps invade Cullen’s senses and the feel of him leaking and smearing across his tongue is bliss.  Cullen grips his hips tightly, moaning with every deep slide of Dorian’s length towards the back of his throat. He feels smug watching Dorian throw his head back with some sort of muttered Tevene curse as he cants his hips to bury his cock further into Cullen’s mouth.

Cullen is forced to gasp in surprise, but not pain, when Dorian tugs his hair roughly in a way that suggests Cullen stop.  He obliges, but not before slowly circling the crown of Dorian’s cock with his tongue. “Maker,” Dorian chuckles breathlessly. “I’d not expected you to be so very good at that.” He cards his fingers through his hair and seems to be making an attempt to get ahold of himself for a moment before continuing. “But I am a greedy man, Cullen, and I am not ashamed to say I want  _ more.” _

As he stands, Cullen presses himself forward enough so that Dorian’s cock slides wetly along his torso.  If the sounds Dorian makes in response are anything to go by, Cullen’s movement has the desired effect. He cups Dorian’s face, searching his eyes for the raw emotion Cullen knows he can always find within when Dorian is being needlessly supercilious.  Cullen’s jaw is pleasantly tight with overexertion and his lips tingle when he licks them, stalling impending words in the name of self-consciousness. Cullen doesn’t get the chance to speak though, not when Dorian is leaning in to drag the tip of his aquiline nose against Cullen’s scarred cheek, lips entirely too close to refuse.

Cullen hopes Dorian can taste himself on him as their tongues caress and search.  He’s thankful to be kissing Dorian for many reasons, but in this very second that gratitude is present because Dorian cannot see the shade of pink Cullen can practically feel himself turning thanks to the lewd direction his thoughts had just travelled.

“I’ll give you everything,” he breathes against Dorian’s lips before kissing him deeply again.  But all too belatedly, Cullen realises the lie of his overzealous vow the moment Dorian’s fingers are plucking at the laces of his trews.

Without breaking their kiss, Cullen takes Dorian’s questing hand away, bringing it up to thread through his hair instead.  As if reflexively, those fingers tighten, tugging on shaggier waves at the back of Cullen’s head. Of course, Dorian’s free hand trails impatient touch across Cullen’s bare stomach, further and further downwards…

Panic explodes in Cullen’s chest without warning. “Please… I– just…” He closes his eyes tightly and finds himself fumbling over the words to explain, though Cullen doesn’t quite know what he even means to say.

Dorian laughs; he laughs and it’s still a beautiful sound.  He laughs because he doesn’t know; how could he? Dorian laughs because Cullen is sure he has formed some sort of instant assumption.  The next words out of his mouth all but confirm that.

“So  _ modest,  _ my dear Cullen.  Shall I reassure you that I’ve seen almost. _ Every. Part.  _ Of you already?” Dorian smiles and it’s lovely in its ignorance, so much so that Cullen can almost ignore his shame. “We’ll have to do something about all your awful little tells during card games,” Dorian’s hands resume their earlier work of unlacing Cullen’s trousers, fingers brushing not-so-innocently against where he’s half-hard. “Lest you face another abysmal loss–”

Cullen cannot take it anymore.  He takes Dorian’s hands in his, folding his fingers to hold both their hands tightly against his own chest as he looks at Dorian with all the sincerity he can muster. “It isn’t…” Cullen shakes his head, looking away for a moment as he tries desperately to steel himself. “It isn’t that, Dorian.”  

Dorian opens his mouth to speak, his gaze on Cullen’s face turning quizzical.  

“Before you say it, it also isn’t…” Cullen sighs, dispirited. “Lack of experience.”

Face more serious, if not a little grave, Dorian pulls one hand away from Cullen’s grasp to brush his knuckles along Cullen’s cheek. “What is it?  Help me understand, Cullen.”

If only it were so easy.

Cullen knows he wants Dorian and all that he is willing to give; wants in the way his mind has screamed fantasies at him when he's been alone and given in to its wanderings… though, only occasionally would his hand follow after.  But he's no notion of how to give voice to the ingrained hesitancy his body will surely betray him with as soon as Dorian’s hands are on him - not without it sounding like a retreat. Cullen has never particularly cared or had opportunity to dissect his lack of  _ need _ in the face of physical want.

The knowledge that this automatic wall has been there to readily form more often than it hasn't, has simply been enough for Cullen; he’s never had cause to question it.  Once Kirkwall offered the illusion that he could perhaps find out what it was like to feel safe along the bridge of intimacy with another, he soon discovered not everyone shared his ideas of what affection  _ could  _ be.  It was true that some did not even abide by the idea of affection at all; the  _ physical  _ was all that mattered, and most didn’t waste their time on a lover who’d not acquired a taste for such things.

Of course, there were also those in the barracks that would, on occasion, whisper that Cullen was going become “too soft.”  As they saw it, his eyes didn’t linger quite as long on the fairer sex as they did on broader shoulders and handsome faces.

Idle gossip was all the more justification Cullen needed to not waste too much time on meaningless dalliances in his younger days.  Besides, it had been better not having to face the strange, hollow emptiness that always persisted… not to mention the particular shade of darkness his nightmares would turn thereafter, reminding him of the old inflicted horrors forever burnt into his soul.  The chaotic goings on in the Gallows, and Kirkwall as a whole, became a monumental distraction from everything soon enough. After a time, Cullen no longer cared a whit for gathering scraps of unsatisfying connection. He doesn’t recall having an insatiable itch to scratch like his comrades so often did; the lyrium was there for that.

But he wants to need for Dorian, wants to try without letting habitual discomfort and panic overstay its welcome.  Cullen hopes that maybe they can both learn the entirety of love’s verses together; the beauty and truth of it in each other.  Maker knows he has had to listen to a more dissonant song for far, far too long and eagerly awaits a change of tune.

And Dorian’s song is such a warm and passionate red, enough to drown out the cold blue voice that plagues Cullen at the most inauspicious times.

Cullen closes his eyes as he leans forward to touch his forehead to Dorian’s. “I don’t want to drive you away,” he says, embarrassed by the waver in his voice. 

Smooth hands are a comfort at either side of his face.  Dorian kisses him lightly, reassuringly. “I promise you, only my parents are capable of such a feat.” There is a bit of levity in Dorian’s tone again and it’s honestly a relief to hear. “My stubbornness knows no bounds, otherwise.”

Cullen smiles at that. “So I’ve noticed.” There is a heavy pause as he thinks over how best to explain to Dorian something he doesn’t fully comprehend, himself. “Let’s just… I’d be more c-comfortable leaving the trousers, ah– on… for now.” Rather than face it head-on, Cullen sidesteps the matter.

Dorian says nothing, but Cullen does not see any disappointment in his face when he backs up to take a seat at the edge of the bed, pulling Cullen along by the hand. “Lay with me,” Dorian says quietly.  So Cullen goes, kicking off his boots and crawling after to rest against a small hill of extravagant, embroidered pillows that are such a stark contrast to the mostly ordinary room. But Cullen soon feels the same about Dorian as expanses of bronze skin stretch out next to him; the many wisps of candle flame catching on edges and curves of muscle as well as the deep green and violet silk beneath them.  

He thinks Dorian could stand in the middle of a room full of riches, silken brocades, and precious jewels of every sort and still be the most striking sight to behold.

They lie facing each other, only a few inches apart.  Dorian’s hand rests at the side of Cullen’s neck with his thumb brushing against the corner of his jaw.  Cullen’s feels calmer now, but not entirely just yet. His hand still tremors slightly when he reaches out to smooth his palm from Dorian’s rib cage down to the side of his thigh, then back again – slower this time.  Dorian’s eyelids grow heavy with lust as Cullen lets his touch wander over his abs, inch by inch, with each new pass of his hand along Dorian’s body. 

When Cullen’s fingers travel through coarse hair to graze the base of Dorian’s cock, the man moans almost silently.  Cullen teases his fingers up the deep muscled line that leads away from Dorian’s cock to the top of his hip, chasing each light press of his fingertips with more and more pressure until Dorian is thrusting his hips forward in tiny increments, searching for what Cullen won’t yet give him.

Dorian's fingers dig into the back of Cullen's neck, travelling up to twist into his hair.  Cullen sighs out,  _ “Harder”  _ and Dorian complies, tugging sharply so that Cullen is forced to snap his head back a little.  The sharp bite of pain in his scalp and the sound of Dorian's breath quickening sends a tingling sensation down through Cullen's body, straight to his cock.  But he continues feather-light touches down Dorian's shaft - which is still damp from his saliva - and Dorian practically whimpers out his name.

Suddenly, Cullen finds the words to speak some of his fears. “I want to, but…” Dorian's eyes open a little wider, understanding seeming to slowly brim from within them.  With his focus remaining trained on Cullen’s face, Dorian’s body continues to react to the idle attentions Cullen pays to it. “It's like…” Cullen quickly thinks through some sort of metaphor. “wanting to cross a– a raging river, but the only means over it is a deteriorating bridge.  I find… I find it hard to– to reconcile the r-risks, especially when I don't even know what potential pitfalls await me on the other side. It is… usually safer to stay put.”

“Why must the other side hold dangers at all?  The unknown isn’t always so big and scary.”

“I– forgive me, but I'd rather not say…” Cullen trails off, averting his eyes.

“There is  _ nothing _ to forgive, Cullen.” Dorian wriggles closer with the words. “Maybe you…  _ ahh…fuck…”  _ he hisses and squirms as Cullen drags his fingers from the underside of his cock to his balls.  Cullen smiles smugly. “Maybe you just need someone beside you to help you cross, show you there is nothing to fear, protect you from that  _ potential.”  _ Despite his earnestness, Dorian cannot seem to quiet his panting.

“But then there are often times I don't have…” Cullen frowns. “t-the uhm,  _ desire _ to cross… But this,” He moves close enough to Dorian to kiss him, finally palming him with sure pressure, causing Dorian’s breath to hitch. “This, I know how to deal with, mostly.  This is safe.”

Dorian licks his lips before speaking. “And when those times come – when you don’t want to, I'll stand with you, amatus.  Show you how things can be even safer still.” His dulcet voice is low and pleasant to Cullen’s ears; the sound of Dorian speaking in his presence always a soothing thing even during Cullen’s worst headaches.

Dorian’s offers are all well and good of course, but Cullen is sure Dorian will grow bored and impatient with him.  It would be expected. And when he… when he goes back to Tevinter… 

With that thought, a gaping hole opens up inside Cullen's chest, painful and rapidly filling with desperation and despair.  The time they have together – still undetermined as of now – becomes an hourglass.

Knowing what Cullen does of Dorian’s Tevinter upbringing and his tenuous relationship with his parents, particularly his father, he imagines Dorian does not know the borders of his own safety, choosing instead to construct impenetrable walls to ensure it at all costs.  How in the Void Dorian can feel safe with a former Templar like Cullen... he cannot fathom the sense in it.

“Aye, perhaps I could do that for you as well?” Cullen suggests.

Laughing, Dorian asks, “Do  _ what  _ for me, exactly?”

“Be your safety,” Cullen whispers, but he is proud that the words do not waver, that the strength of what he feels might shine through yet.

Stilling his hand, Cullen watches Dorian’s confidently crooked grin falter.  He’s looking at Cullen with such a staggered, awestruck expression that it makes his heart ache.  They kiss with renewed fervency, heads tilting to find the best position to grant their mouths the most access.  Kissing Dorian is nothing like kissing any woman or man Cullen has in his past. Dorian is not delicate or quiet in his passion, but he is neither demanding nor selfish in what he wants.  Kissing Dorian is passion shared, truly, and Dorian is loud and self-willed when it comes to things he cares deeply about, so this is no different.

Even so, he is pliant and gives beneath Cullen’s attentions, unafraid to let Cullen take the control he has never had over something he’s always wanted.  Dorian’s mouth is still greedy for Cullen’s as he pulls away to thoroughly lick his palm, and Cullen gladly lets Dorian have what he wants  _ – what he needs –  _ by nipping at his bottom lip while his saliva-slickened hand wraps around Dorian’s dick.

Cullen wants to draw this out as long as he’s able, keeping the movement of his hand slow, but firm.  They are close enough that Cullen can let his hand brush against his own hardness with each flick of his wrist, causing him to moan into Dorian’s mouth.  Dorian’s hand travels down Cullen’s back, nails dragging all the way until he grabs Cullen’s arse. It’s no longer enough. Cullen wants to feel the drag of those blunt nails over his flesh, not the leather barrier of his trews.  He feels his face flush in surprise of his own want.

He regrets that he must take his hand away from Dorian, wishing his other arm wasn’t currently trapped beneath the pillows.  Taking Dorian’s hand away from his backside, Cullen feels Dorian tense. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so  _ handsy,  _ but–” Cullen ignores the apology in favour of bringing Dorian’s hand between them, placing his lover’s palm against where he is straining against the confinements of his trousers.  Dorian still hasn’t relaxed, so Cullen guides his hand, gently rolling his hips into Dorian’s tentative touch until he does. “Are you sure?” Dorian asks.

Cullen nods, but keeps his hand over Dorian’s, thumb rubbing circles into the soft skin at the inside of his wrist.  He cannot help watching their hands, and when Cullen glances up, he sees that Dorian apparently shares the same sentiment.  Cullen begins unlacing his trews, and Dorian graciously removes his hand so Cullen can pivot and wriggle out of the tight leather.  He knows there will be more scars slashing the sides and backs of his thighs for Dorian to map, but Cullen tries not to think about that.

Involuntarily, Cullen’s limbs begin to tremor.  He tries to stop it, but tensing his body only makes it worse and causes a strain in the muscles of his back.  Cullen isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel any pleasure this way.

Dorian leans over him, brows knit in concern. “Are you alright?”

“I will be… just– I don’t know, distract me.” Cullen answers him.

The wrinkle between Dorian’s brows deepens. “Won’t that make it  _ worse?” _

Cullen forces himself to sit up, leaning on one elbow.  He cradles Dorian’s face.  _ “Please,  _ Dorian.”

The plea, which carries its own small shame, seems to lessen Dorian’s worries.  He kisses Cullen, eagerly licking at the seam of his mouth until their tongues meet and Cullen feels that sense of  _ need  _ creep back in.  Hand to Dorian’s chest, Cullen presses Dorian down against the mattress and situates himself astride his hips.  The position is incredibly intimate as it is, but Cullen wants to keep trying.

Dorian is staring up at Cullen reverently, hands moving over his thighs, teasing inwards.  “May I touch you? In other ways besides this, of course.” Dorian smiles and gives a firm squeeze to Cullen’s thighs, causing him to jolt forwards a little.  Their cocks brush and they sigh in unison. Cullen repeats the motion, slower this time. Dorian is already making a mess of his own belly; milky white fluid in small little pools, catching in the dark hair that peppers his stomach in a progressively denser trail downwards.

Cullen takes one of Dorian’s hands and brings it to his own stomach, lets elegant fingers trace through coarse, pale hair, over the sharp lines delineating his abs.  Dorian is thicker muscle around the middle where Cullen is leaner for his frame – his recovery still evident in his physicality. The lyrium withdrawal still likes to eat away at his appetite, and the worry and stress of the passed few days has done nothing to help matters.  But Cullen is falling in love with all of his and Dorian’s differences – however big or small they may be.

The way Cullen feels as Dorian wraps his fingers around him is familiar at first.  There is the initial emotional discomfort, the indifference to what’s occurring outside his body, and his inner-thoughts trying to vehemently tell Cullen this could be  _ wrong;  _ this could all just be a deadly ruse borne of temptation.  But Dorian’s eyes aren’t wrong, they are sad and hopeful and longing.  Deep down inside, Cullen knows he can trust this moment,  _ trust Dorian,  _ because this is real.  This is a reality Cullen does not have to reinforce with dormant abilities.  The trust and faith Cullen knows he can have in Dorian, and give in return, grants Cullen a power neither the lyrium nor the Order could have ever offered.

Cullen gives into Dorian’s touch, gives in to the contact of their bodies, and he feels…  _ Maker, does he feel. _

Dorian lets out a breathless chuckle, smiling up at Cullen. “We didn’t even have to open the wine.  Imagine that.”

Leaning down to mouth along Dorian’s jaw and neck, Cullen growls playfully, “Watch your tone.”

“This is... new for me too, is all,” Dorian explains softly and wraps his arms around Cullen’s shoulders as he ruts against him.  The admission hurts Cullen’s heart as much as it makes him feel more optimistic that Dorian perhaps feels as strongly as he does, that he too, is letting go and giving in.

A bit of bravery takes Cullen, and he goes with it, not wanting to lose it to the claws of apprehension.  He shifts forward, crawling up Dorian’s body until he can grind his arse against Dorian’s cock.

_ “Venhedis, Cullen…!” _ Dorian cries as he arches off the bed slightly.

Cullen sits up, and moves Dorian’s cock to rest between his cheeks.  He rolls his hips backwards experimentally until they’re both panting, then increases his pace slightly, one hand grasping Dorian’s hip, the other still pressing against his shaft.

Groaning loudly, Dorian closes his eyes until Cullen tells him, “Look at me, Dorian.”

One curled end of Dorian’s moustache ticks upwards in a crooked grin as he opens his eyes. “You _are_ a sight to behold.  Though… _mmm…”_ Dorian thrusts his hips off the bed as much as he can with Cullen’s weight on him.  And Cullen can’t help the quiet whimper he lets loose from his throat, feeling the head of Dorian’s cock drag passed his entrance. “I am still the better looking of the two of us.  But only marginally.” 

Though he can hardly pay attention to what Dorian is saying, Cullen manages to chuckle at that. “Oh, of course,” he snarks. “And I… I suppose I can’t argue that.”

“Am I allowed to say what’s on my mind, or would that be too much?” Dorian murmurs.

It depends on Dorian’s definition of “too much,” Cullen supposes, but then again, he has long been intrigued by any thought poured from Dorian’s mind.  Cullen bends to kiss him, his voice a mere hush as he brushes the words, “Tell me,” against Dorian’s mouth.

“Now, feel free to thrash me,” Dorian starts hesitantly.  Cullen moves to kiss down his throat, sinking his teeth in once he reaches Dorian’s chest.  He knows he’s distracting the man from carrying on, but for the moment, Cullen is enjoying the control he has over the sounds Dorian is making.  Dorian always did run at the mouth too often to avoid the point anyway, so who could really blame Cullen for having a bit of fun in furthering the inevitable delay of what is likely to be too many words.  If given the time, he’s sure he would be able to spend hours figuring out every inch of Dorian’s body and the exact places to touch, kiss, lick, and bite that would make Dorian into an utterly writhing mess.

_ “Tell me,”  _ Cullen repeats in a more demanding tone.  He cranes his neck to take one dark nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue back and forth slowly.

And Dorian does writhe beautifully, one hand fisting in the silken duvet the other jerking Cullen off, the glide of his hand aided by precome.  It makes Cullen a bit dizzy, but he finds he doesn’t want it to stop.

“Maker, I wish I could fuck you, Cullen,” Dorian rasps.  

It feels as though the air is sucked out of the room in that instant.  They both still their movements with Dorian’s blunt honesty. Cullen considers each word, asks himself just how deeply he trusts Dorian; not as a comrade, not as a  _ mage,  _ but as the man he is: Cullen’s closest friend… and perhaps, he hopes, his lover.  Deep down, to his blood, to his bones, to the marrow, Cullen knows he trusts Dorian more intensely than anyone he’s met in his adult life.

Fingers thread through his hair. “I’m sorry, that was too much...” Comes Dorian’s remorseful voice.

Cullen stares up at Dorian.  His face is slightly flushed with a thin sheen of sweat at his forehead and temples, strands of dark hair cling in disarray.  There is something more perfect about Dorian so tousled and unkempt like this. “No,” Cullen says firmly, thumb brushing down the middle crease of Dorian’s bottom lip to that little patch of hair below. “No, I think I might want you to.”

Dorian’s brows raise. “I don’t want to push you, Cullen.  I don’t want this to end up being about what I’d like. Don't think–”

“I trust you.” Cullen claims Dorian’s mouth in a lingering, open-mouthed kiss before Dorian can think to argue against his certainty some more.

When they part, Dorian leans over to rummage in his bedside table, retrieving a glass vial Cullen can easily discern as oil.  With the vial unstoppered, Cullen's heartbeat changes from a nervous flutter to an insistent hammer.

“If you change your mind, if you need me to stop…”

Cullen nods. “I know.  I just need to get there, and I’ll be alright.” He’s grateful Dorian does not press him for the meaning of  _ “there”  _ because he doesn’t think he could explain that, or at least not conjure up another silly metaphor.

Willing himself to relax, Cullen keeps his eyes trained on Dorian.  At the first inward press of a fingertip, Cullen’s body tenses instinctively.  As Dorian’s hand moves between Cullen’s legs, he tries to focus on each teasing point of contact where Dorian’s palm and knuckles brush against.  He knows things will get easier as soon as he feels Dorian thrust his slick finger with little shallow movements.

_ “Amatus,”  _ Dorian is wearing that careful, wary expression again. “May I put my mouth on you?” It is clear Dorian asks with the expectation for Cullen to say no, but that assumption is quickly proven wrong as Cullen smiles, laughs, and ducks his head.  He is about to move off of Dorian to lie down, but Dorian gestures him forward with a little smirk and a tug to the back of his thighs. Shimmying up Dorian’s body on his knees, Cullen is somewhat confused until his dick is hovering near Dorian’s mouth.  Oh.

Dorian grips him firmly at the base, licking a wide stripe up the underside of Cullen’s cock.  At the same time, Cullen feels the pressure of Dorian’s finger, and then another, opening him up again.  And then Dorian is swallowing him down.  _ Oh. _

Having Dorian’s warm mouth on him is enough to let Cullen ignore the burning stretch and pressure of the other man’s fingers preparing him slowly.  He chokes out a moan as he falls forward, catching himself with his palms on the cold stone of the wall just above Dorian’s headboard. Cullen can feel himself grow completely hard again against Dorian’s tongue, pressing towards the back of his throat.  Embarrassed by the noises he’s making, Cullen turns his head to latch his teeth onto his own bicep, undulating his hips to properly receive the give and take of Dorian’s fingers and mouth.

Dorian begins curling his fingers, beckoning Cullen’s body into a whole-body quiver with the overwhelming sensation building inside him, taking over.  Sword calluses rasp against uneven stone as Cullen clenches his right hand upon the wall, his left moving to grip the dry wood of the headboard. It all feels so good in that moment, and then it truly  _ does  _ become overwhelming; Cullen’s mind and body still quietly at war with one another even still.

Cullen pulls out of Dorian’s mouth with a sharp gasp and settles down against him, resting his chin on Dorian’s heaving chest as he withdraws his fingers.  Dorian is breathless, beautifully breathless – they both are, but Cullen made Dorian that way with his own body, his own will. Capturing that one good thought proves difficult because Cullen knows he cannot have something good, something this normal; he has not repented enough to deserve normalcy, he may never.  Has the Maker scoffed at Cullen’s ironic bond with a Tevinter Altus all this time?

Gentle hands rub his shoulders, his name a repeated, troubled whisper against his hair. “It’s too–” Cullen swallows, gathers his composure to answer Dorian. “It just got to be too much, forgive me.”

Dorian presses his lips to Cullen’s forehead, moustache softly bristling his skin. “No apologies, do you hear me?” he murmurs in a reprimanding tone. “Do you want to stop?  It’s alright.”

Leaning up on one elbow, Cullen looks to Dorian and exhales a weighty breath.  He realises now that his emotional and physical want has become tangled up in his strong, irrevocable emotional  _ need  _ for Dorian.

Again, he considers the desire to not lose the rare thread he’s been able to grab hold of, for if they were to stop now, that feeling would wane into nothingness.  Rubbing his fingers over his mouth, Cullen shakes his head. “Maker, no... I don’t,” he says with vehemence and surges up to kiss Dorian so very deeply. 

Dorian’s tongue runs over his in the most lewd, seductive fashion, hands running down Cullen’s back, gripping his arse.  Cullen dips his hips to rut against Dorian’s stomach, once, twice. “Fuck…  _ fuck, _ Cullen,” Dorian pants.  Cullen never wants to hear his Inquisition title slip from Dorian’s mouth ever again; from Dorian’s mouth, Cullen’s given name holds so much more esteem.

_ “I want you,”  _ Cullen groans in between a passionate kiss.  He moves back, widens the stradde of his thighs on either side of Dorian’s hips and wraps his fingers around both of them with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Come here, amatus.” An embrace, warm and inviting as Cullen leans forward, kisses Dorian.  It’s a softer parting of lips this time, a mutual savouring.

The tinkling sound of the glass vial’s stopper being opened, slick fingers massaging sensitive flesh.  Cullen takes in the sight of Dorian below him – droplets of oil on his stomach that have fallen from his palm as he coats his cock in oil, the way his brow draws down tight over his eyes, a flash of white as teeth bite town on a full lip.  He gives Cullen a few, quick teasing strokes as well, which are entirely distracting, then there is the blunt pressure as Dorian guides himself in, slick and hard. 

That intoxicating feeling mingles with the sharp tug of Dorian’s other hand fisted in Cullen’s hair.  Cullen tries to grasp hold of all of it, the whole of the moment. Dorian gives little thrusts upwards until Cullen begins to sit up, to take control of his own shallow, downward movements.  He knows the fullness will subside, breathes, focuses on Dorian’s heartbeat beneath his palm, focuses on the way Dorian holds onto his hips but doesn’t try to push him, just continues a slow press upwards as Cullen descends.

They both sigh out a moan when Cullen sinks down completely.  Cullen breathes harshly through his nose, dragging his hips forward then back as slow and controlled as he is able.  Feeling the hard length of Dorian moving smoothly inside him… it nearly unmakes him.

Dorian sits up, impatiently propping pillows against the headboard.  He carefully moves Cullen until he’s comfortable in his lap; their eyes meet and Cullen sees the question there, the question of whether or not Cullen is actually enjoying this.  He wraps an arm around Dorian’s shoulders, grasps the back of his neck and kisses him hard.

Rocking his hips again, Cullen takes Dorian deeper, tilts his head back as Dorian laps at his clavicle. “I don’t want you to leave,” Cullen breathes into the dim of the room.  He lowers his head, pressing his lips to Dorian’s mouth, searing the words against them; whispering his weakness over and over like a canticle against Dorian’s jaw, his ear.  _ Fucking Void take him,  _ Cullen doesn’t mean to say it, doesn’t mean to let the waver in his voice show when he follows that admission with an echo of inner desperation clawing from his throat. “I don’t want to let you go.”

He can’t look at Dorian’s face, not now, not even as the man hugs him closer, thrusting up into him until Cullen can barely form coherent thought beyond the warm pleasure bursting within him and knowing that  _ this _ is how it’s supposed to be.  Finally, this is how it’s supposed to be and Cullen is doomed to lose Dorian to prideful altruism.

Dorian cradles Cullen’s face down, forces him look.  Dorian’s normally crystalline grey eyes are glassy, and Cullen isn’t sure if it is the firelight, but he could swear they’re a bit red, too. “You can’t do that,” Dorian smiles, but it’s watery and weak.  A shadow passes over his face. “Emotional blackmail isn’t fair.” His voice cracks – the mask cracks, slips. A tear falling as Dorian closes his eyes, as he makes a broken, defeated sound. He whispers, “You know I have to go, but not yet… I’m not going  _ anywhere  _ yet...” then claims Cullen’s mouth, pushing him back across the bed with his own weight.

There is no space between them, their bodies continually trying to say what they are not yet able.  Dorian plants open-mouthed kisses up Cullen’s torso, bites down on a nipple as Cullen bites down on the thumb parting his lips.  Dorian moans against Cullen’s chest, flicks his tongue one last time before he removes his hand from Cullen’s mouth to cover it with his own.

A myriad of emotions flood inside Cullen as he feels Dorian pressing inside him again.  He locks his ankles at the backs of Dorian’s knees, fingertips dragging and digging against the muscle of Dorian’s back as if Cullen means to remould him.  

Dorian breathes that one word Cullen knows not the meaning of against his ear with increasing frequency, nearly in time with the low, yet urgent sounds Dorian pulls from him with each deep thrust.  He hooks an arm under one of Cullen’s knees, changes the position of his hips. “Fucking–  _ Maker, Dorian!”  _ Cullen gasps.  Dorian drives his cock into Cullen in a way that has him feeling like he might come right then with every upward roll of his lover’s hips.

“No,  _ I’m  _ fucking you,  _ amatus meus.”  _ Dorian kisses him and they swallow one another’s moans. “But it is holy, isn’t it?”

That deep purr in his ear rapidly compels Cullen’s ascent towards the crest of his pleasure. “Touch me,” he nearly begs.

Dorian drags his nose against Cullen’s cheek, licks the stubble of his jawline. “I want you to come, Cullen.” He lets go of Cullen’s leg, which he promptly wraps around Dorian’s waist so as to not lose the angle of their bodies.  Complying with Cullen’s wish, Dorian fists Cullen’s cock, loose strokes as he focuses on the drooling head. “I want to feel you,” Dorian increases the strength of his thrusts, but not the pace he’s perfected.

Cullen groans, his breaths coming so quickly now it feels as if they lodge and build in his chest.  _ “Dorian…” _

“That’s it, let me feel you come...  _ ocellus meus... caro meus.” _

The moment Cullen comes has the world whiting out.  He chokes out a sob as Dorian milks him through the second wave of his orgasm and he’s vaguely aware of the pleased sounds Dorian is making against the side of his neck.  Cullen clutches Dorian tightly, his back bowing off the bed when Dorian gives one final, deep thrust.

Passed the throbbing, deafening pulse that Cullen can hear and feel throughout his body, he becomes vaguely aware of Dorian pulling out and sitting up.  He watches Dorian kneel between his thighs, touching himself with the hand still coated in Cullen’s come. He tries to drag Dorian’s pelvis closer to his arse by pressing his heels into the backs of Dorian’s thighs, but Cullen’s legs are still too weak and shaky, apparently.  Admiring the view takes much less work and energy.

Dorian’s eyes are dark and lustful – Cullen can tell he likes to be watched and finds he has no qualms about drinking in every inch of Dorian.  He drinks in the sight of him the way he pretended not to earlier, when Dorian stood from the bath, but now Cullen doesn’t restrain himself from touching.  

Gripping Dorian’s hips, he digs his thumbs into the carved lines of muscle that lead to his cock, watching the way Dorian works himself steadily.  His fingers brush against the raised veins of Dorian’s forearms, feels the tightening of the muscle in motion. An anguished look of ecstasy takes over Dorian’s face, quiet  _ “ah”s  _ raising in length and volume from his throat as he comes across his hand and Cullen’s stomach.  Translucent streaks of Dorian’s warm release join the splatter of his own, and Cullen keenly feels as debauched as Dorian looks.

Somehow managing a feline grace, Dorian moves up Cullen’s body, hovering to lick just below the dip of his throat. He kisses Cullen immediately afterwards, tasting bitter and wonderful.  Cullen can’t care whose spend Dorian cleaned from his chest, cannot care about the wet slide between their stomachs as Dorian lays his weight down on top of him.

Their lips part, but Cullen cannot resist one last kiss to the little bump on Dorian’s nose before he nestles his head beneath Cullen’s chin.  “Stay.” Cullen hears Dorian say, so quietly, it is like a secret sent to the shadows. Cullen does not know if the bid was meant for him, or for Dorian himself.  He’d not argue against either.

//

Late into the night, when the cool haze of the moonlight is all Dorian can see by, he stares across the planes of Cullen’s chest, watching the shallow rise and fall of his sleep-calm breathing.  He wants to move, to get up, burn away the anxious energy that’s rooted itself into his extremities and ruined his remarkably warm and comfortable sleep. Perhaps a book, that would keep his mind off of…  _ thoughts, _ at least.  He could go sit across the room in his worn wingback chair and loose a wisp into the air for light, Cullen would be none the wiser.

But he moves, and so does Cullen.  He freezes, thinks perhaps if he doesn’t breathe, Cullen won’t notice him trying to slide off his chest.  Of course, Cullen wakes the moment Dorian untangles their legs. He’s certainly made stealthier escape attempts in his lifetime...

Cullen turns to him, brings a hand to Dorian’s face.  His eyes are still filled with an endearing sort of drowsiness. “Alright?” And well, Dorian is not at  _ all  _ prepared for what the sleep-induced grate to Cullen’s voice does to him, or certain…  _ parts  _ of him.

“You aren’t the only one that doesn’t sleep through the nights.  I have half a mind to snuggle that bottle of wine between us. Drink until my eyelids fall heavy, the usual.” Dorian inclines his head across the room to his sideboard.  Then he realises he’s likely roused Cullen from a rare, nightmareless sleep and feels horribly selfish over it. But he’s greeted with a warm smile when he looks back down at Cullen. “Sleep, my sweeting,” Dorian tells him quietly.

“Will you?”

“Of course, I’m not going anywhere,” Dorian whispers.  He doesn’t miss the sad sigh Cullen gives through his nose.   _ Please, not now.  Later… later, amatus. _

Cullen curls up closer to him and Dorian peppers a few kisses to the brown clusters of freckles upon his shoulder.  He watches the way Cullen’s eyelashes just barely brush the fainter freckles below his eyes. His heart does this… funny, but not altogether unpleasant thing.  Even still, Dorian’s instincts and the echoes of repeated lectures tell him to shove it away, this isn’t meant for him. “You’ve cursed me, I hope you know.”

Cullen chuckles sleepily, keeps his eyes closed. “Oh?  I hope it is a good curse.”

“Yes, well.   _ Curses,  _ aren’t usually pleasant, you oaf.  You’re getting that confused with your delightful chantry-boy blessings and nonsense miracles.” That earns him another laugh.

“I think you’re the one who’s confused about curses and blessings, love.” 

Love.   _ Kaffas,  _ Dorian wants to kiss along that stupid grinning mouth of Cullen’s, feel his scar beneath his lips.  He sniffs haughtily. “Well, I won’t deign to argue with a man who cannot even find the decency nor respect to actually  _ look  _ at me while he’s speaking to me.”

Cullen opens his eyes and scoffs. “You told me to go back to sleep!” he croaks out indignantly.

Dorian sighs and settles back down beside Cullen, worms his way to his chest until one strong arm collects him closer still.  He feels Cullen shift around and looks up at him. “Dorian,” he starts. Cullen’s face is solemn and Dorian waits for the words that teeter silently at the edge of his name.  Instead, he’s kissed breathless, then Cullen is lying back down, tucking Dorian’s head beneath his chin.

Dorian feels as though his heart has ceased to beat, his blood frozen in his veins.  He knows exactly what words Cullen carried on that kiss, and he has never been more terrified or happy in his life.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "leo meus" = my lion  
> "ocellus meus" & "caro meus" = both are Latin terms of endearment, let's just say, a strong version of "my dear/darling." But literally, they translate as "my eye" and "my flesh" respectively. 
> 
> Also, I'm no expert in Latin, so if I've screwed up the placement of "my," please let me know!


End file.
